


In My Little Day

by TiamatsChild



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Episode Related, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-07
Updated: 2012-01-07
Packaged: 2017-10-29 02:15:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/314737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TiamatsChild/pseuds/TiamatsChild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Old? The Doctor wasn’t old.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In My Little Day

**Author's Note:**

> The quoted dialogue is from _The Macra Terror_ , but knowledge of that serial isn’t even remotely important. It’s also not spoilery.

“Old? What do you mean, old? I’m not old, Jamie.”

He wasn’t. He’d so hated to admit it, before when he was himself and walked with a cane though he only occasionally needed it. Well, you never knew, after all, and it was frightening not to have it to hand when it was necessary. It was too frustrating, still being nearly too young to be taken seriously and having all the aches and twinges of a body running down. Now he’d done it, he understood why so many decided to skip that first, distinctly physical, messily organic life span.

But he’d wanted it, wanted to feel his body settling around him, wanted to watch his face change without changing. Besides, he’d liked his self; clung to his own personality and viewpoints with all the tenacity he could bring to bear.

Now, of course, he thought he’d been in danger of becoming a prosy bore. But he’d been him, and he’d held to being him even as everyone else went ahead and became someone new. He’d only changed his mind (and face, and body) when it became impossible not to, when he could feel himself finally breaking apart, his brain dimming, his blood going still at last. He could remember what it felt like to be that self, to stand and be frail, bones slowly thinning and hearts losing strength, and be _proud_ of it, the same cold steel that still sometimes held him straight and steady.

He supposed he looked somewhere in middle age now, but he was young and no longer embarrassed by it. He was young! Everything was clear and sharp and he ran and jumped and was afraid of how much it hurt to die. He was new, and he knew it, and he was a bit of a mystery to himself and realized it in a way he hadn’t, before he’d changed and found a whole new self to be.

He was terribly young. Too young to be a father, really, far too young to be a grandfather, but he’d been both and was both, and he was travelling, he knew he’d never be able to go home, the way was barred to him now, deserts and Romans and Cybermen and Daleks and a sharp eyed schoolteacher stood between him and the man he’d been, back then, when he was himself and he’d first thought: “Run.”


End file.
